


The River

by Gilli_ann



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, F/M, Imagery, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-19 21:34:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10648500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilli_ann/pseuds/Gilli_ann
Summary: In Minas Tirith, Frodo is hurt by the unsuspecting Sam's plans for the future.





	The River

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Characters and locations belong to the Tolkien Estate. I make no profit from writing about them.

Up on the balcony of their borrowed mansion, Frodo is standing in shadow, silently watching the commotion down below. 

The people of Gondor celebrate the royal wedding all through the night. There are many fires and lights, with music, shouts, voices and noises. Life in Minas Tirith under the returned king seems a swift untamed river, much like the Anduin must appear after sundown during spring festivals. A ceaseless rushing sound, and countless lights shimmering on the black surface. 

Suspended above the din, Frodo is dizzily aware of a strong pull to drag him under, to drown him in crowds and noise, to swirl him helplessly away into unreal engulfing darkness; a storm-tossed leaf caught in a flood of life-changing events and conflicting emotions. 

If not for Sam. 

Sam, standing behind him, his arms enclosing Frodo tightly. Sam’s strength is his only haven now, keeping him safe from the dangerous eddies. Sam’s constant care and devotion, and the recent surprising turn in their already so close relationship keep him on firm ground. 

Frodo leans back and gratefully feels that strong embrace, holding him safe from engulfing sounds and darkness. He concentrates on the solid, real feeling, and closes his eyes. 

Sam has been unusually silent and thoughtful of late. He’s regarding the wedding revelries too, solemnly watching the bonfires in the night, a distant and pensive tone creeping into his voice when he speaks.

“I’m happy that Strider got to marry his lovely lady at last. These big people know how to celebrate when they put their mind to it, with those elvish minstrels and the trumpets and all, and wondrous dishes enough to feed every hobbit in the Shire twice over, but it’s all so very big, if you follow – it’s not like the parties back home.”

Resting his chin gently on Frodo’s shoulder, he tightens his grip around his master and sighs longingly.

“Once the wedding’s over and celebrated we can finally be on our way, Mr. Frodo, and leave this outlandishness behind. Don’t get me wrong, it’s all very grand and wonderful and special, and I’m happy to have seen it and taken part, I’m not saying otherwise, but in the end all of it ain’t really proper and right for plain ordinary hobbits from the Shire, is it?"

Sam's voice drops, an intimate murmur. “And I’m hoping... Well, I’m thinking - I’m wondering if Rosie-lass is waiting for me.”

Ever after, Frodo will continue to wonder how words spoken in the pleasant tones of a quiet brook unintentionally may prove to have the devastating impact of a sudden dam break, crushing all in its wild torrent’s wake. Keeping his eyes firmly closed, Frodo hears a thundering noise, as if the falls of Rauros has appeared directly below their balcony. 

He squeezes his eyes tighter against the roaring din, so tight that he sees pinpricks of light. Small brilliant points, like bubbles rising upwards from the lungs of a drowning hobbit. Sometimes in his nightmares he’s pictured Primula and Drogo like that, carried helplessly down the Brandywine, their last breaths like strings of pearls trailing behind them towards the moonlit surface.

Fighting off the painful image, he draws a long shaky breath, filling his lungs with the life-giving air of a night turned bitter. He somehow manages to pat Sam’s arm gently as a token of reassurance and hope, and he whispers something comforting and loving and kind – he doesn’t quite know what, but it seems to please Sam.

It's outlandish – yes; the tall silent servants waiting on them, the silver circlets they wear during the celebrations, the immense bed they sleep in at night, with magnificent heroes and intricate patterns embroidered on the heavy draperies, - and most of all, their tender and unlooked-for physical intimacy. All of it beautiful, but certainly strange compared to Shire ways. 

Now he owes it to Sam to let go, to let Sam go back home to the family life he longs for and desires. He owes it to Sam to try braving the currents of undeserved adulation and to fight the ever-present undertow of despair on his own. Sam has given so much, - he deserves Frodo’s every silent effort at survival in return. And he deserves the freedom to choose an ordinary life in the Shire, without feeling guilt at doing something so simple and obvious.

Frodo gently breaks free and opens his eyes; they’re curiously dry, as if he’s shriveled up and turned to dust inside. 

The lights have gone out. 

All he can see is darkness ahead.


End file.
